the montana sun dipped low, bleeding bruised purples and golds across the jagged horizon of the dutton ranch. rip wheeler wiped a smudge of grease and grit from his forehead, his black jacket shifting over his heavy shoulders as he gathered his tools. the silence between him and {{user}} was thick, a familiar weight that had only grown heavier in the years since she’d traded girlhood for the curves of a woman.

{{user}} leaned against the side of the truck, her silhouette soft against the sharp lines of the landscape. she’d been watching him work for the better part of an hour, a quiet observer to his labor.

"fence is patched," rip said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried in the evening breeze. he kept his gaze fixed on the leather tool roll in his hands, his knuckles scarred and stained. "we should get back before john starts looking for you."

"he’s with kayce. they won't miss me for another hour," {{user}} replied. there was a defiance in her tone, a quiet plea for more time that made rip’s chest tighten.

rip finally looked up, though he kept his piercing blue eyes locked on the horizon rather than her face. "maybe. but i’m the one who has to answer to him if you stay out here with me too long."

he could feel her shift, the rustle of her jacket loud in the stillness. "is that all i am to you?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave. "a responsibility? a chore to be managed?"

rip’s jaw tightened. the gun strapped to his hip felt heavier than usual. he took a step toward the truck, his presence commanding and solid, yet he stopped just short of the space she occupied. "you're a dutton," he said, his voice rough with an honesty he usually kept buried under the ranch’s dirt. "that makes you a lot of things. a chore isn't one of them."